


Bumps in the Road

by Sparkle_Free



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-09
Updated: 2010-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-11 15:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparkle_Free/pseuds/Sparkle_Free
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson's friendship with Holmes had hurt his reputation, badly.  It was time to do something about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the [kinkmeme](http://community.livejournal.com/shkinkmeme/5516.html?thread=10848908#t10848908)

"No fires in the sitting room, no experimenting on my dog, and for God's sake, Holmes, _eat_ something while I'm gone," Watson ran through his mental list as he carried his bag into the sitting room. Holmes sulked in his chair, pointedly not looking at him.

Watson sighed, setting his bag by the door. "It's just a weekend," he tried to reassure Holmes. He crossed the room and gripped his shoulder, and Holmes looked up at him finally, quickly schooling his features into indifference.

"Honestly Watson, don't look so concerned. I can manage a weekend," he said dismissively. He looked down, lips pursed, and Watson took a moment to admire his friend's profile before he glanced away, blushing slightly.

"Good. Please remember to feed the dog. If you get bored, you might consider cleaning up," Watson said, teasing.

"Everything is where it belongs," Holmes replied. Watson raised an eyebrow and looked around the disaster they called their sitting room. Papers were strewn everywhere, a cup full of some unidentifiable thick black liquid next to Holmes' feet - he hoped dearly his friend hadn't been _drinking_ that - and there was currently an ominous black smoke wafting from a test tube by the window.

"If you say so, Holmes," he chuckled. Holmes' lips quirked slightly in response. Watson let his hand linger on Holmes' shoulder slightly longer than necessary, but not so long that Holmes became suspicious. He finally drew away when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door and informed him his cab had arrived. He bid Holmes farewell and grabbed his bag, hurrying for the door. Mrs. Hudson followed him down the stairs and shot him one last nervous look before closing the front door behind him.

As soon as he arrived at the conference, he moved around the room with the ease of familiarity - not with the men themselves, but the setting. It had been years since he'd last attended a medical symposium, and he found himself nearly giddy with excitement. The other doctors milled around as well, chatting amicably. Watson was quickly drawn into a conversation with a group of young doctors, and introduced himself.

"Dr. Watson," the man nearest shook his hand. "I've heard of you. You work with Mr. Holmes, don't you?"

One of the other men began to laugh, quickly covering it with a cough. Watson shifted nervously. "Yes, that's correct."

"Is he really as mad as they say he is?" one of the younger doctors asked.

"He's brilliant," Watson said, frowning. "I'm sorry, what was your name?"

"Dr. Morgan." He waved Watson's comment off. "And we know he's _brilliant,_ but, is he -"

The man next to him cleared his throat, and Dr. Morgan broke off, blushing slightly. "There have been some fascinating studies recently on sicknesses of the mind," the man began, wincing at his own poorly thought attempt to change the subject. Watson shot him a grateful look anyway.

Dr. Morgan turned to him with an encouraging smile. "Have you read the latest monographs on the subject, Dr. Watson?"

His heart sank. "No, actually. I haven't." He still bought the latest medical journals, of course, but with his - _Holmes'_ \- schedule, it was rare that he managed to read them as thoroughly as he should.

"Gentleman," a man said from behind him, "We're nearly ready to begin." Watson nodded, turning away quickly. The lecturers began to prepare, and he was spared further conversation as they moved to find their seats. Embarrassment gnawed at him while he took notes, however, and he found his thoughts wandering often. Finally the lectures were over, and with a sigh, he closed his notebook and retreated to his room, feeling defeated.

 

\-----

The next morning, he sat in the corner, drink in hand, contemplating as the other doctors milled around him, exchanging cards and making connections. A few of them glanced at him, whispering among themselves, but none bothered to approach him.

He used to be a respected member of his profession. His involvement in Holmes' cases had been fun, yes, in a boyish sort of way. But he had been neglecting his work in favor of Holmes', and that simply could not go on, he told himself firmly. He needed to form new friendships, and fast, if he was going to save his career and his reputation.

"Dr. Watson?" someone asked.

He turned around, smiling politely. "Yes?" he asked the tall man standing beside him.

"Dr. Moore," he introduced himself. "I couldn't help but overhear that you were in attendance. I'm hosting a small luncheon Monday for a few of our fellow Londoners," he nodded toward the other doctors, "And I would of course be honored if you would join us."

Watson couldn't help but smile back at him, his heart lightening already. "Thank you, Dr. Moore, I would be happy to."

"Excellent," they exchanged cards and shook hands before moving to take their seats. Watson once more took notes, listening to the lecturers carefully. At the end of the day, he Dr. Moore introduced him to a few of the men they would be dining with the next day. By the time he was able to slip away, it was nearly dark. He hurried to pack his things.

When he reached Baker Street, Holmes was sitting at the table in their sitting room, chemicals spread out in front of him. He turned when the door opened, smiling. "Watson! You're just in time. Once I mix these -"

"I'm tired, Holmes," he interrupted, walking past him without looking at the chemicals Holmes was gesturing excitedly toward. He spared a moment to hope the resulting fumes wouldn't be toxic before moving toward the stairs. _If they aren't, maybe then I'll get to sleep through the night,_ he thought, suddenly bitter.

"Watson?" Holmes' worried voice stopped him on the stairs. Slowly, he turned around, willing his irrational resentment not to show on his face. From the way Holmes' eyes widened, he didn't think he succeeded.

"I just want to sleep," he pleaded softly, ashamed of his own emotions. Holmes nodded, looking disappointed and slightly hurt.

"Yes, of course," he answered, turning around quickly and moving around his chemicals. With a sigh, Watson trudged up the stairs. He collapsed on his bed fully dressed and rolled to look out the window. _I need this_, he told himself firmly. It would be difficult, but worth it in the end, he tried to convince himself.

He would see this through.


	2. Chapter 2

Watson awoke slowly the next morning, lounging in bed. His shoes had been removed at some point during the night; his jacket and waistcoat were draped over a chair next to his bed. He reached out to run his fingers over the fabric, a soft smile tugging at his lips. He sat up and looked at the clock. He was pleased to see that despite his exhaustion, he hadn't slept too late; he had time to visit with his dear friend before his luncheon, at least, and hopefully make up for his churlishness the evening before.

When he entered the sitting room, Holmes was already seated at the table, smoking rapidly as he poured over a map.

"A case?" Watson asked eagerly as he walked inside. Holmes glanced up at him, lips twitching in the barest hint of a smile. His unruly hair stuck up at all angles; Watson resisted the urge to run his fingers through it, instead resting his hand on Holmes' shoulder as he passed to sit in his chair. Acceptable behavior; always just barely acceptable.

"Perhaps," Holmes replied, folding the map and setting it aside. "Lestrade has yet to ask for my assistance. I'm merely familiarizing myself with the basics, to prepare for the inevitable."

Watson chuckled, lifting the lid on his plate and sniffing appreciatively. Mrs. Hudson always outdid herself when he'd been away; it was almost as though she was thanking him in her own way for returning. He dug in quickly, mouth watering.

"We should pay a visit to the crime scene after breakfast," Holmes continued.

Watson coughed around a mouthful of eggs, and Holmes looked up, concerned. Watson waved him off and looked down nervously. "I'm afraid I'm indisposed at the moment. You'll have to go without me."

Holmes' eyebrows shot up. "Oh? Prior engagement?"

"I'm attending a luncheon with some gentlemen I met at the convention," he admitted, feeling inexplicably guilty.

"Ah," Holmes said immediately, "Then perhaps I'll accompany you instead, as I am not yet working in an official capacity. I should like to meet your new acquaintances, after all," he stretched idly, his - _Watson's_ \- ill-fitting waistcoat riding up. Watson cringed.

"I... don't think that would be a very good idea, Holmes," he said as gently as he could.

Holmes looked genuinely surprised for an instant; then, his face darkened. "Oh," was all he said. Watson's heart sank.

"It's just that they seem rather conventional people," Watson said quickly. "I can't imagine you would have much in common with them," he finished lamely.

"Very well," Holmes muttered, standing and gathering a few things from the desk. "I believe I'll see to that crime scene after all, old boy. Will you be free in time for supper?"

"Will _you?_" Watson smiled at him, glancing at the map in Holmes' hands.

"Of course," Holmes assured him, smiling back warmly, his dark mood lifting slightly. "We'll meet at Simpson's then, seven o'clock."

"I won't wait around for you," Watson warned him as he finished his breakfast.

Holmes' smile faltered slightly. "No, you won't," he agreed, voice hushed, before turning toward the door. "I will see you this evening, my good fellow," he said, and with that, he was gone.

Watson spent the afternoon in rather pleasant company, if a little dull. Dr. Moore's acquaintances were all cordial men, asking him politely about his work but avoiding mentioning Holmes by name. Watson found he preferred it that way. He left shortly before his meeting time with Holmes, pleased his name was being circulated in polite society once more. Still, he couldn't deny that he was looking forward to Holmes' unique brand of conversation, particularly after such mundane chatter, and to hear about the potential case.

Watson hummed to himself as he entered the restaurant, looking around. He quickly spotted Holmes at their usual table, sipping his wine, eyes darting around the room. Always thinking; always analyzing. He crossed the room and slid into the seat across from Holmes. He didn't bother with the menu; they ate here often enough that he was fairly certain he had it memorized, now. Holmes didn't look at him, still cataloging the patrons around them.

"You're late," he said off-hand, scrutinizing a young couple a few tables away. For a moment, Watson wished he could see whatever his friend could see to capture his interest so; then, the meaning of the words hit him and he frowned, drawing out his pocket watch.

"By mere minutes, Holmes. Are we going to start splitting hairs over dinner engagements, now? Because I don't believe you will come out favourably, my friend."

Holmes finally looked at him, frowning. "Always because of cases, Watson," he said, as though that excused everything.

"And I suppose my friends are of less personal import than your cases?" Watson shot back, suddenly uncomfortable. Holmes was studying him, now, with that intense gaze that made clients, policemen and foes alike squirm in discomfort. Watson looked away, eyes focusing on Holmes' waistcoat. He looked it over idly, and then stared. "Those aren't my clothes," he blurted out.

Holmes glanced down at himself. "Of course not. They're mine," he said.

Watson leaned closer to look at the rich fabric. "They're _clean._ No tears, no chemical stains."

"They're new," Holmes admitted, picking at the jacket in a gesture that, had it been anyone else, Watson would have described as nervous. He leaned back in his chair and looked his friend over, admiring the effect. The clothes fit him perfectly, molding to his lean frame. His hair was still tousled, however, falling over his forehead in a careless manner. He looked devilishly handsome; the kind of man women swooned over. Watson shifted as a pang of longing shot through him.

He cleared his throat, looking away. "They look fine," he said tightly, fiddling with his teacup. From the corner of his eye he saw Holmes was still watching him closely and turned away farther, desperate to hide his face. "What was so fascinating about them, Holmes?" he asked, pointing to the young couple. Holmes finally looked away, glancing at their table.

"Nothing of import. She is with child; they are engaged to be married, but he is not the father of the child. I suspect someone of lower class, but obviously I could not deduce it with such limited data."

"Obviously," Watson said with a slight laugh, relieved to have the attention shifted from him. The last thing he wanted was to have Holmes deduce his unnatural desires; he valued their friendship far too much. But Holmes smiled at him then, an honest, open smile that he so rarely shared outside of their home, and Watson felt his heartbeat speed up once more. He couldn't help but smile back warmly, and was rewarded with Holmes reaching across the table to squeeze his hand affectionately.

He had tried to tell himself all of this was for the best, but with Holmes across from him, clean and groomed and minding his manners perfectly, he couldn't help but think how much he would miss these times if his endeavor was successful.


	3. Chapter 3

The next two weeks passed slowly.

The days seemed to drag on, as Watson attended dinners, luncheons, and tried to catch up on his reading. For Holmes' part, he didn't start fires in the sitting room, or play his violin in the middle of the night. Watson had laid awake every night for a week now, the house eerily quiet.

He didn't, however, take Holmes up on any of his offers to come with him and meet his new friends.

The most worrying part was that Holmes listened, and didn't follow him or try to insert himself into the group in any way. It was all very strange.

Holmes had purchased himself a new wardrobe, explaining it away as needing 'proper' clothing, an idea which Watson found patently ridiculous when applied to the detective. He didn't mention it, however; Holmes seemed far too pleased with himself, and he didn't want to spoil his mood. The strangest part of all, to him, was that he found he actually missed seeing the detective in his clothing; the sense that even when he came home from boxing, smelling of dirt and sweat and other men, he was still marked, _branded_ as Watson's own.

Which was a ridiculous thought; Holmes wasn't his, would _never_ be his. He shook his head, suddenly grateful to be getting away. He needed to get his thoughts in order; somehow, recent developments had only made things worse, for him.

He heard the front door open and close, then footsteps on the stairs. "Watson?" Holmes called. He froze, clothing only half packed.

"In here, Holmes," he called back reluctantly.

Holmes stepped inside Watson's bedroom and frowned immediately, taking in the case on the bed, the folded clothing next to it. His eyes glimmered with an unnamed emotion for an instant before his face went carefully blank; he looked over Watson's unpacked things before focusing on him. "How long?" he asked, cordially.

"It's just a weekend," he answered reluctantly. "A hunting trip."

"You don't hunt," Holmes reminded him, straightening his jacket and crossing his arms.

"I've never hunted with you," Watson corrected him. He resumed packing his clothing.

"We've lived together for eight years, and you've never so much as mentioned hunting," Holmes continued as Watson re-folded Holmes' favorite jacket of his, tucking it away carefully.

Watson frowned to himself. Eight years, really? "I'll be bringing Gladstone with me, so you don't have to worry about him," he continued.

"You don't hunt," Holmes repeated, as though he hadn't heard a word.

Watson sighed. "And yet I've spent a good deal of my adult life shooting at things; I think I'll manage. My new friends enjoy hunting, so I may as well try it. This is what friends _do,_ Holmes." He waited for Holmes to reply again; when he didn't, he turned around to see Holmes studying him with a strange expression on his face. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," he said in a clipped tone before spinning on his heel and walking away. Watson watched him go, and for a moment considered going after him, but instead finished packing his suitcase and called Gladstone over, clipping his leash on and walking to the door.

He caught an earlier train that he'd expected, Gladstone sleeping at his feet as the carriage swayed gently, carrying them out of London and toward the countryside. Once there he gave the address to the cabbie.

They stopped in front of a large, old estate. The grounds were well-tended, stretching on either side of the house. He fetched his bag and hurried to the door, where Dr. Moore met him. "Dr. Watson," he greeted. "Please, come in. Dr. Anderson and Dr. Campbell are already here."

It wasn't long until they were seated around the table, a desk of cards between them, laughing. Gladstone sat at his feet, whimpering gently. Dr. Anderson snickered, and Watson felt himself flush. "Go on," he told Gladstone, nudging him away with his foot, toward the other dogs. Gladstone finally waddled away, leaving them to their game. He lolled by the fire, ignoring the other animals in favor of the heat.

They settled in to their game quickly, passing the time companionably, lighting the gas lamps as the sun began to set. The conversation was dull but the brandy flowed freely, and Watson let his mind wander as they played.

"We've got an early morning, tomorrow," Moore announced finally, breaking into his thoughts. The other men murmured their assent, standing. Watson followed their lead.

"Do you have much experience hunting, Dr. Watson?" Dr. Campbell asked.

"He's got plenty of experience shooting at people," Dr. Anderson said, voice slurring slightly. "With that Holmes fellow. And the Army," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Watson's grip on his cane tightened. It was one of the few times any of them had mentioned Holmes in front of him. "Holmes' cases are often a matter of life or death, for his clients," he explained quietly. Dr. Moore stepped forward and clapped him on the arm.

"Of course they are," he said with a smile. Watson smiled back at him grateful before stepping away. "Good night, gentlemen," Dr. Moore nodded at them each in turn. Watson nodded as well, calling for Gladstone and slipping away to his room before the conversation could continue.

He tossed and turned most of the night, sleeping fitfully and dreaming of soft violin sonatas.

The next morning Dr. Moore shook him awake before the sun came up, explaining in hushed tones that they would be heading out early. An hour later, they were traipsing through the woods, the early morning sun blinding his eyes as they marched toward it. He fell behind, looking around at the trees, letting his mind wander in boredom.

Until a shot fired close to him. He shifted his rifle to the side and reached for his handgun on pure reflex, heart hammering in his throat.

"Dr. Watson? Are you feeling alright?"

He started and turned, only to realize he'd unconsciously moved closer to Dr. Moore, gun in hand. He flushed, stepping away. He tucked his revolver back into his pocket, adjusting his hunting rifle in his other hand. "Sorry," he muttered as Dr. Anderson's hound trotted back, waterfowl clutched in it's jaws.

That night he sat by the fire, brandy in hand as the other men played cards once more. He wondered idly what Holmes was doing; if he was working on a case. He realized with a pang he hadn't seen Holmes enough over the past week to even know if the man was working, currently. He sighed, turning to look at the dogs, who were lounging by the fire once more. He looked at Gladstone; his bulldog, trying to wiggle his way into a pile of hounds. He smiled sadly.

"Come here, boy," he called. Gladstone immediately abandoned his pursuit and walked over to him, leaning into his touch as Watson scratched behind his ears. "Let's go for a walk, eh? It's too stuffy in here," he whispered.

Gladstone trotted in front of him happily as they strolled around the grounds in silence. He looked over the beautiful garden, sun setting in the distance, and all he could think about was much he wanted to be at home.


	4. Chapter 4

Watson fairly leapt from the cab as it pulled up outside of their home. He stopped just long enough to pay and retrieve his bag before bounding up the steps and to the door, jerking it open. Gladstone trotted toward the kitchen, leash still dragging behind him as Watson darted up the stairs, taking them two at a time. There were faint sounds coming from the sitting room; Holmes had been keeping himself busy, then. He pushed open the door to the sitting room, and stopped.

And stared.

There were workmen painting over a newly refinished section of wall where Holmes' VR used to be. The persian slipper was gone; Holmes' papers had all but vanished.

"My God," he whispered, walking to the center of the room and turning around. It looked like a perfectly normal sitting room. He shuddered.

There were footsteps on the stairs, and he turned just in time to see Mrs. Hudson enter the room. He crossed to her quickly, gripping her by the shoulders. "Mrs. Hudson! What's going on? Are you evicting us? I realize we haven't been -"

"- This isn't my doing, doctor," she interrupted him, wide-eyed.

"Wh-what? Then, who?"

"That would be me, my dear Watson," Holmes said from his doorway. He moved to stand next to Watson, looking around the room as well.

"But why?" Watson asked, dazed.

"I thought it was about time we had a more conventional living arrangement," Holmes said. He paused long enough to step aside, letting the painters pass with their equipment. Mrs. Hudson held the door for them, then pulled it shut behind them. Watson heard the muffled sounds of them moving down the hall. "Do you like it?" Holmes asked finally.

Watson's heart sank; Holmes was looking at him so hopefully. "Of course," Watson lied quickly, smiling.

Holmes moved closer suddenly, looking him over intently. He swallowed hard; his every nerve ending seemed to be aware of the detective's proximity. "Have tea with me," Holmes said lowly, reaching to grip Watson's elbow. His eyes were soft, hopeful, his voice slightly pleading. Watson's breath caught in his throat. "I have missed you, as of late," Holmes admitted. His thumb stroked Watson's arm lightly as he waited for an answer.

Watson felt a pang of guilt. He had missed Holmes as well, but he didn't trust himself not to give too much away, saying it aloud. "Perhaps another time," Watson suggested softly instead. Holmes nodded, stepping away.

"Fine. If you'll excuse me, then, I have work to attend to." He spun around quickly and headed back to his bedroom.

Watson turned away, trying not to let his bitterness overtake him as he heard Holmes' door click shut. Before, it would have just been accepted that they'd be working together. Now, it was like they were strangers. Watson turned around slowly, looking over the room. All signs of their shared life together had been removed; where once their belongings would have mingled together familiarly, they now stood apart. Holmes' violin no longer sat next to Watson's chair; Watson's medical books no longer sat on Holmes' desk.

This was what he'd wanted, wasn't it?

He sat down on the settee, hard. A feeling of grief was overtaking him, as he looked around. He could still see himself in the room; he couldn't say the same for his friend, anymore. It was as though Holmes was fading away, right before his very eyes.

Irrational panic jolted through him and he jumped to his feet, hurrying to Holmes' door. He needed to see him, needed to reassure himself he wasn't losing his dearest friend. "Holmes!" he called frantically, pounding on the door. He had to see the detective, _now._ He threw open the door without waiting for an answer.

The piles of paper had all been relocated to Holmes' bedroom, covering every available surface, including the bed. Watson wondered where Holmes had been sleeping, then, before he turned to see Holmes sitting in front of his mirror, scissors in one hand. He was running the other through his normally unruly hair, turning his head from side to side. "Perfect timing, Watson; I may need your assistance with the back."

Watson crossed the room and tugged the scissors out of his hand. "No," he said firmly. "What are you thinking?"

"It's too long to be proper," Holmes answered.

\-----

"_Sod_ being proper!" he snarled, throwing the scissors on the desk with a _clang_. "What has gotten into you lately?" he demanded.

"This is what friends do," Holmes said quietly as he stood, turning to face him. Watson stared at him in confusion for a moment, before remembering their conversation just before he'd left.

Realization dawned on him. "You did all this... because of me?" he said softly. Holmes glanced away, crossing his arms and clearing his throat. A sick feeling of guilt curled through him. "Holmes..." Watson crossed until he was standing directly in front of him, reaching out to cup his jaw, stroking his thumb over his cheek as he forced Holmes to meet his eyes. Holmes looked embarrassed, his cheeks flushing slightly. Watson's breath hitched; he looked beautiful.

Holmes tried to pull away, but Watson followed him, raising his other hand to tangle in Holmes' ridiculous, improper locks, holding him in place. "You don't need to change for me," he murmured, leaning closer. "I like you just as you are - messy, self absorbed, and self-righteous," Holmes frowned at him, but Watson held him tightly, "I miss _that_ man. I miss _you_." Hope rushed through him as Holmes' eyes widened, then scrunched as though he may give way to tears. A sudden wave of affection washed over him; heart hammering, he leaned forward and brushed their lips together, a soft, questioning touch. "Don't leave me," he whispered, lips brushing Holmes' gently.

Blood was rushing in his ears; Holmes was standing perfectly still, hands now hanging limply at his sides. Fear coursed through him, then, grounding him, pulling him back to reality. He started to pull back, started to mutter an apology. If he could convince Holmes to forgive him, to let this go -

And then there were hands on him, grabbing at his hips and fisting in his waistcoat; Holmes' mouth pressed to his, all tongue and teeth as Watson was propelled backwards until he slammed into the wall hard enough to see stars.

All he could do was grip Holmes' shoulders as he was pinned in place and Holmes pawed at him desperately, jerking at his clothing and kissing him sloppily, more enthusiasm than finesse. He moaned into the kiss, fingers digging into Holmes' shoulders as he rocked his hips forward and was rewarding with Holmes breaking the kiss to swear in excitement, looking down between their bodies to watch their erections press together through their clothing. He ground their hips together achingly slow, and Watson closed his eyes and pleasure rushed through him. Holmes made a soft noise, halfway between arousal and surprise, and Watson immediately began tugging at the buttons of Holmes' waistcoat, hands shaking as he fumbled with the fabric. Holmes chuckled, a quiet sound that radiated pure joy, and Watson was certain his heart would burst. He pushed away from the wall and managed to spin them around in Holmes' cramped room, pulling Holmes down onto the bed with him.

Papers flew up around them like a cloud of dust in a windstorm. Watson let out a surprised laugh, wiggling out from under Holmes to grab a handful of papers before walking to the door and pulling it open. He heard Holmes following behind him curiously. He crossed to the center of the sitting room and threw the papers in the air; he turned as they fluttered around them to see Holmes watching him, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Then he grabbed the nearest stack, flinging it into the sitting room with a barking laugh.

For the next few minutes all Watson could see was flying paper and Holmes' bright, joyful eyes as they laughed and worked. Holmes' hair was still sticking up, his waistcoat flapping open, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. It rained paper, photographs and clippings all hopelessly mixed, fluttering to the ground. Finally, panting slightly, Watson walked back and sat down on Holmes' mostly clean bed and looked around, smiling.

"That's better," he said breathlessly. Holmes moved to stand in front of him, in between his thighs. Watson ran his hands over Holmes' hips, working his fingers under the waistband, caressing the warm skin there.

\-----

"We've just ruined -" Holmes began, but Watson cut him off by grabbing him by his lapels, pulling him down on top of him and kissing him, hard. "- Hours of work," Holmes finished the moment they broke the kiss, leaning up on his elbows and attempting a mock frown.

"Bugger your work," Watson chuckled, pulling Holmes back down, reveling in the feel of him.

"I've got a better idea," Holmes muttered, jerking his hips down unsteadily. Nervousness overtook his features, though, and Watson smiled at him fondly, running a soothing hand through his hair.

"We've got time," Watson reassured him. He unfastened Holmes' belt, pushing his garments over his hips and freeing his erection. He could feel Holmes' breath ghosting over his collarbone as they shifted, Watson reaching for his own belt while Holmes unbuttoned his shirt.

As soon as he had his flies undone he rolled them over, kicking his trousers off as he did so, bracing himself on one arm. Holmes pressed up against him, eager, shaking either from arousal or nerves as their cocks rubbed together. Watson set an easy rhythm, grinding against Holmes and relishing in the soft noises he was making in response.

Watson slid a hand between their bodies and gripped both their shafts, pressing them together and stroking quickly. Holmes gasped in surprise and jerked his hips, hands roving over Watson's shoulders and chest, shuddering. Pleasure was building at the base of his spine; he squeezed, leaning over to capture Holmes' lips in a bruising kiss just as Holmes convulsed, hot fluid spurting over Watson's hand and his own erection. Holmes' tongue darted into his mouth, stroking him in time with their still bucking hips, driving him higher until he finally pulled away to gasp, body quivering as he came over their abdomens.

He moved to lay on his side, limbs shaking, and Holmes reached over him to grab a sock from the floor. Watson wrinkled his nose as Holmes wiped them clean, but didn't say anything. When Holmes was finished Watson stretched languidly, before reluctantly reaching for his clothes. "I should go to my own room to sleep," he said quietly. Holmes made a soft noise and Watson stopped, turning to look back at him, curious. "What?" he asked.

Holmes glanced away, looking embarrassed. He cleared his throat. "You may find your bed a little... disheveled," he admitted.

Watson felt his face split into a wide grin as he laid back on his side, clothes forgotten. "You've been sleeping in my bed?" he asked, unable to keep the joy out of his voice. The thought of Holmes tangled in his sheets brought on a wave of possessiveness that far outstripped seeing the man in his clothes. "You missed me that much?"

Holmes rolled his eyes and tugged the pillow from behind his head, smacking Watson across the face with it. He didn't bother to deflect it, instead grinning at Holmes when he lifted it. Holmes hit him over the head with it once more, leaving it covering his face. Watson pushed it aside with a laugh. Holmes was looking at him seriously, contemplating, and Watson tilted his head questioningly.

"I missed you terribly," Holmes finally admitted. Guilt rushed through him, but Holmes rolled toward him and tugged him closer, kissing him gently. "But you're here now."

"I am," he whispered back, voice thick. "I'm not going anywhere."

Holmes threw a leg over him, drawing him closer. "Good. Now, go to sleep," he said affectionately.

Watson chuckled, relaxing against the bed once more. He had to admit, it felt good, lying here. "Fine," he said with a yawn. "But next time, I get to have you in my bed."

"It's a date," Holmes agreed, voice beginning to slur. Watson ran a hand through his hair, listening as the detective's breathing evened out. He slipped out of bed carefully, then, pulling on Holmes' dressing gown. He searched the room until he found Holmes' persian slipper; he padded silently out into the sitting room, setting it on the mantle and filling it with tobacco. On his way past, he grabbed one of his novels from the bookshelf and sat it on Holmes' desk. Satisfied, he crossed back to Holmes' bedroom, the door swinging shut silently behind him, to settle in for the night.


End file.
